


House of Shadows

by KBates



Category: La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast (Fairy Tale), Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Dark Jareth, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fear, Gothic, Hannibal-esque, Lust, Modern gothic, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Twisted Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KBates/pseuds/KBates
Summary: Summary: When seeking funding to revive her father’s dying firm, Sarah encounters someone from her past. And a proposal that chills her very bones.Gothic. Very dark take on Beauty and the Beast. Explicit sexual content. A strange amalgamation of fear and lust, horror and romance. [Warning -- disturbing content].‘…ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies…’ she whirled around until she was giddy--she collapsed into a fit of giggles ‘ashes, ashes…’The shadows smiled.‘…we all fall down.’





	1. Roses are Red

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: very disturbing elements, psychological mind fuck, graphic sexual situations, explicit sex, violence, numerous triggers.

_Once upon a time, a beautiful princess played with the shadows._

_‘…roses are red’ she taught them ‘violets are blue…I’m lost in the shadows and so are you.’ And how she laughed…she laughed until there were tears in her eyes._

_‘…and so are you, little girl…and so are you’ the shadows whispered back._

_The princess spent more and more time with the shadows as the king and queen waged war. The shadows were her secret—her special friends in the attic that no one knew about. Every night after her mother tucked her into bed, she’d sneak out—climb up the old wooden stairs, until she reached the very top._

_She skipped around in a circle, a new rhyme on her tongue._

_‘…ring around the rosies, a pocket full of posies…’ she whirled around until she was giddy, and she collapsed into a fit of giggles ‘ashes, ashes…’_

_The shadows smiled._

_‘…we all fall down.’_

\--

_(Prelude: The Williams family household, a quarter century later)…_

She laughs humorlessly—the sound bitter and fractured. “Let me get this straight, _dad_ ,” she emphasizes the last word, “…you’ve pimped me out to an investor?”

“That’s not—” Robert growls, but that’s all he can manage as he massages his temples with his hands. He’s too damn exhausted to deal with an angry Sarah. “That’s not what he said.”

Her eyes are twin flames of emerald. “Enlighten me then—what did he say? Who is he?”

Robert Williams stands up and walks over to bar—he pours himself a hearty glass of brandy and downs the drink. “His name is Julian Chasse—very low key. Owns a venture capitalist firm I’ve never heard of called Ad Astra—he’s willing to invest _enough_.”

She snorts. “Still so secretive, dad? I won’t have any kind of advantage over you if you just tell me how much—”

“You don’t need to know,” Robert interrupts, pouring himself another drink. “He’s willing to invest a sizeable amount—it’ll get us back on our feet and then some. _Without_ asking for a seat on the board—an offer like this is unheard of—I couldn’t say no.”

“What is he, the godfather?” She sneers viciously. “I wonder how common it is for a man to sell his daughter on a pedestal.”

The guilt Robert had felt just a few moments earlier, evaporates—he’s not one to dwell in emotional despair—especially if it isn’t to his advantage. “Don’t be dramatic,” he snaps, voice as cold as hers. “He’s obviously a very wealthy man, I doubt he needs to force someone like you to…”

She raises a cool brow. “Let me finish the thought for you, dad. You doubt he needs to force someone like me to fuck him.”

“Sarah!” Robert roars, his eyes blaze with anger—large hands clench into fists. “Stop twisting everything I say to suit some messed up narrative you have in your head.”  

She knows he’s using his temper, his height, even his words to intimidate her—as he does with everyone else…but she stands tall in the face of her father’s rage and smiles. “I’m 30 years old—I’m not afraid of you anymore, _daddy_.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Robert grits out. “Refuse his offer—all the man wants to do is meet you. Make sure this family is run down to the ground…” he stops as he notices his wife wander aimlessly to the family room. And then he feels a different kind of rage—what is the point of paying for the damned nurse when the woman can’t do her job?!

“Karen, stop.” Sarah rushes to her step-mother’s side. “Please… _please_ stop.”

Karen Williams gives no indication that she’s heard her step-daughter. She smiles—not at anyone, but generally—as if she’s very happy— _elated_. When she speaks, she whispers her words while her eyes remain unfocused. “They talked to me today—they say Toby plays with them every single day.”

“Oh God, Karen,” Sarah says, her voice rough—she’s unable to stop the onslaught of sorrow that blooms in her gut and spreads up her chest—as if searing her heart. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Marta, an elderly nurse, rushes into the family room—relief spreads across her wrinkled features as she realizes her patient is safe. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Williams—I stepped outside to take a phone call—”

Robert gives her a hard glare, effectively silencing the woman. “I was under the impression that my ill wife would be well cared for, Marta.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Her father has the eerie quality of inciting fear with his calm voice—the man could, and _did_ , intimidate anyone who disappointed him. She’d seen it happen with her mother, then Karen and Toby—until the accident in any case. She doubts Karen can register anything at the moment, but her nurse looks seemingly terrified.

“She is, Mr. Williams—I am _so_ sorry. This will never happen again, I swear to you.” Blood drains from Marta’s face, and she inches towards the hallway slowly—as if she can’t wait to get out of the man’s presence.

Robert smiles grimly. “See to it, Marta. I would hate to get you fired from your chosen profession.”

“I will, Mr. Williams.” Marta turns around quickly to leave, but stops when she hears Sarah call her name.

“She said _they_ spoke to her—something about playing with Toby. Do you know what she’s talking about?” Sarah scrutinizes the woman’s reaction—something flashes in her dark eyes, but it disappears before she can study it further.

“No, Sarah. I’ll leave you two alone—sorry for the intrusion.” With those words, Marta leaves the father and daughter duo to their strange battle. When she’s out of their sight, she crosses herself, reciting a brief prayer—something’s not right with these people. If she hadn’t been so desperate for a job, she’d have never stepped foot into this house.

\--

“Are you happy?” Sarah asks rhetorically. “You terrified the woman.”

“She gets paid a fortune to work here—she better be afraid of getting fired if she doesn’t do her job.”

“The _organization_ she works for gets paid a fortune by the _insurance company_ —who fucking knows what her salary is.”

A serpentine smile spreads Robert’s lips. “Karen is covered through _me_ , Sarah. What do you think will happen to her if the firm goes bust? Do you think we can afford a private nurse—or would she be in a shared room in some state run facility?”

“Don’t even go there,” Sarah retorts, furious. “She’s in this state because of you—Toby’s dead because of—”

Robert clamps a large hand over his daughter’s mouth before she can finish. “Toby’s dead because of _you_ , Sarah…tell yourself anything you want. Make me out to be the monster you think I am, but Toby wouldn’t have been in that car if you were home that weekend.”

Sarah shoves her father, satisfied as he stumbles a little. His words would have hit their mark a few years earlier, but she’s gotten over her grief—at least to the point that it’s only a dull ache in her chest. “You can’t manipulate me like the rest of them, dad—you should know that by now. Don’t _ever_ touch me again.”

Robert shrugs exaggeratedly, bowing his head in mock acquiescence. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart. Tell yourself it isn’t your fault when Karen has to share a room with six other people in a state run shithole—how long do you think she’ll live?”

“I fucking hate you,” she whispers—the memory of her brother combined with Karen’s pitiful condition is too much for her to take…and a desperate rage burns deep in her chest. “One day, I’m going to show you how much.”

“Wonderful words to say to your father who’s given you… _everything_. Tell me, Sarah, who do you work for?”

She crosses her arms, regaining some composure. “The only reason I work for you is because you sabotaged my career everywhere else.”

Robert laughs. “Excuses. You could have left. You could have become an ambulance chaser with an office in some strip mall in Florida—you could have had one of those ‘have you been in a car wreck, call me’ ads on all local channels. You could have become a pro-bono activist fighting for the homeless in San Francisco. Hell, you could have moved to Costa Rica and fought for farmers’ rights. There are a million different things you could have done, Sarah, yet you chose to accept 12% of my firm and become a board member…imagine that?”

Swallowing back a burst of rage, Sarah smiles sweetly. “I accepted the position for one reason alone, daddy. I’m going to take over the firm one day…and throw you out.” _Once I destroy you completely_ —that part she leaves out.

“Ah—I should have known. My only daughter’s deepest wish is to run me out of the very firm I started. Should have expected it—children are such selfish, entitled assholes.” Robert grins as annoyance flickers in his daughter’s eyes. “Be that as it may…there needs to _be_ a firm that you can throw me out of—this fantasy of yours can’t happen if we go bankrupt. Use your head darling, I know you’re not just a pretty face—meet Julian Chasse and figure out what he wants.”

She ponders over her father’s words…he’s not entirely wrong. _Still_ —something doesn’t add up with this bizarre request. “What could he possibly want from me?”

Robert’s eyes gleam—she seems adequately intrigued. “He said he lived somewhere around here some time back…and that he saw you.”

“What do you mean he saw me? Where?” She’d moved out of her parents’ house at 18—and she’d never moved back, even after the accident.

“The question isn’t where—though, I suppose that matters too—but _when_. He watched you run in the park—when you trained all summer for cross country.”

_Julian Chasse had watched her all summer before junior year?_

Sarah’s blood runs cold. “I was 15.”

“He said he admired how you pushed yourself,” Robert continues, unconcerned with Sarah’s reaction. “ _Perseverance_ is the word he used—he admired, or _admires_ , your perseverance.”

“So he’s some sick fuck who lusts over barely developed 15-year-old girls?”

Robert rolls his eyes and stares at his daughter with a disaffected gaze. “Don’t dramatize the situation, Sarah. If Julian is indeed a sick fuck, then he would want nothing sexual from you, a decade and a half later. It’s a win, win.”

Sarah resists the urge to snort—only a sociopath like her father would call this situation a ‘win, win.’

“Fine,” she says after careful consideration. “I’ll agree to meet him for lunch tomorrow—but I hope you mull over the fact that the _only_ reason I’m agreeing to this fucked up agreement is to see if he’ll help me throw you out.”

“Venomous words, sweetheart,” Robert says, his tone soft and coaxing—as if he’s speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. As if he’s a concerned father placating his daughter—and not a man who’s bartering his daughter for money. “He doesn’t want you to meet you for lunch…he said he’d rather you visited him at his estate.”

“His _estate_?” She scoffs at the word—who even uses that term in this century? “And where is that?”

“It’s off the coast of Rhode Island—you need to take a boat from New Port. He’ll arrange for transportation.”

Sarah grits her teeth—this _agreement_ was getting stranger and stranger by the second. But she’s made up her mind, and she’s not going to give her father the satisfaction by backing out. “Any other arrangements I should be aware of?”

Robert shakes his head. “A driver should come and pick you up at 9 tomorrow morning,” he pauses, frowning as he sees her wear her coat. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” she replies, already walking to the front door. “I’m not staying in this house a second longer than absolutely necessary.”

Robert waits until she opens the front door and steps out—just as she’s about to walk away, he speaks. “Oh, I almost forgot…he said that he remembered the princess dress.”

“What princess dress?”

“The one you wore while practicing that play of yours…what was it called?”

She turns around and looks her father. “Labyrinth.”

\--

_(Sarah’s apartment)_

_She washes up and applies a nightly serum to her face—her actions methodic. She stares at the mirror as she brushes her hair 100 times—another nightly ritual._

_‘Mirror, mirror on the wall—who’s the strongest of them all?’_

_An indulgent laugh. ‘Not you—not today.’_

_‘But I might be…with his help.’_

_‘Is it really him?’_

_‘It has to be’_

_‘It feels so…unimaginative. Like an opening scene in a poorly made porno.’_

_‘I don’t care—he can be as unimaginative as he likes. As long as I can use him.’_

_‘Is it safe?’_

_‘You remember in chess, how dad would let me think I had the upper hand, but crush me eventually?’_

_‘Yes…?’_

_‘And defeat would feel all the more terrible, because I believed victory would inevitably be mine…until it wasn’t?’_

_‘Yes…?’_

_‘It’s my turn.’_

_Opening her medicine cabinet, she pulls out a bottle of pills. She stares at the little orange bottle with the white cap…and then she places it back where it belongs._

_‘Not tonight?’_

_‘No…I need you. All of you.’_

_The shadows smile, ‘…and we need you, princess.’_

\--

_(The next day)…_

She’s quiet through the journey to New Port—it’s only an hour and half, maybe two most days. She could have driven herself—but the driver had insisted Mr. Chasse wouldn’t be pleased if she did that. By the time they reach New Port, the late morning sun hangs high in the sky—the water is a brilliant shade of blue.

Her hands clench into fists as she recalls one of the many family trips they took to New Port. Toby had challenged her to a clam eating contest—and she’d lost.

“Miss?”

Snapping out of her thoughts, Sarah looks at the man who’d driven her here. _What was his name again? James? Thomas?_ Something quite common, but she can’t remember it.

“Yes—I’m sorry for drifting off,” she says. “Thank you for driving me here.”

The man nods, and directs her to the far end of the pier. “My pleasure….please,” he says, indicating that she get on the boat that’s docked.

She raises a brow at the man’s behavior—his actions are hurried, as if he can’t way to get the hell away from her. She takes his hand as she climbs onto the boat, noticing him flinch as she grips his fingers.

_What the fuck is his problem anyway?_

“Sit down please,” the man says. “Wear a lifejacket.”

To her surprise, the man climbs into the boat.

He grins at the look of surprise on her face. “Someone has to steer this damn thing to Anchor Island. Looks sunny, but the water’s choppy today—make sure you stay seated, yeah?’

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. What an idiotic excuse—it’s clear he doesn’t want her anywhere near him. “How long with it take?”

“An hour if we’re lucky.” His New England accent comes out strong when he pronounces ‘hour.’

“I’ll stay seated,” she promises. The wind whips through her hair—the sound of the engine is loud enough that she has to shout her words. “So how do you know Mr. Chasse?”

“I don’t,” the driver shouts back.

“What about Anchor Island, then?”

“It is way out in the open—unsettled until 1898. Heard of Dr. Ryker?”

 _Dr. Ryker_? The name sounds familiar, but she can’t quite recall the details. “Kind of. Is he famous or something?”

The man turns back to look at her. “Yeah. He was also known as the King of Nightmares. All the society women used to flock to him in the 1890s—so he opened a residential psychiatric infirmary on Anchor.”

Curiosity gets the better of her. “What happened?”

“He took twelve women, ranging from 14 to 32. A few months later, three washed ashore on a decrepit raft.”

Her jaw drops open. “What about the rest?”

“Cops went looking for the rest…never found them, not even their remains…not even body parts. They found a mansion Ryker had built—but upon inspection, the cops said no one had lived there. Ryker himself disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“But what about the three who survived? What did they say?”

The man shakes his head. “They were never right in the head to begin with. After Ryker…well…they went insane. Didn’t sleep for fear of nightmares, didn’t eat…just wasted away.”

“So Julian Chasse lives in Ryker’s house?”

“It’s not a house, miss—it’s massive. I don’t know when Chasse moved here, but there’s been some talk up the shore about a man renovating Ryker’s mansion.”

She frowns—taking in the macabre story, analyzing it, ripping it apart piece by piece. Why would the Goblin King take up residence in some psycho doctor’s house?

 _Maybe it isn’t him_ — _maybe Julian Chasse is some eccentric rich guy who thinks buying a weird house will make him interesting_.

_If that’s the case…I’m fucked._

Just as she’s about to ask another question, she notices a long pier that extends out into the ocean. Anchor Island looks a lot smaller than she’d anticipated. “I’ve never seen a pier that long—how is it even standing?”

The man shrugs, steering towards the docking station. “Ryker didn’t like boats getting too close to his island…neither does Chasse.” He steers them toward the pilings expertly and ties the boat. “Here you go miss—hope you have a satellite phone on ya.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sarah says with a smile, taking his hand and stepping onto the pier. “But I came without anything—left my cellphone at home.”

“Sweet Jesus, lady—why would you do that? You’re out in the middle of nowhere with a man you don’t know.” The man looks genuinely concerned.

Her smile deepens. “I have a feeling that a cellphone—even a satellite phone—wouldn’t work against whoever’s inside that house.”

The man shakes his head—muttering something about irresponsible nutcases as he unties his boat. “Is there anyone you want me to call?”

“No…I’ll take my chances. I’d like to thank you properly though—this is very embarrassing, but I can’t remember your name. Thank you, Mr.….?”

The man is silent for a few seconds. “I never told you my name.”

With those words, he steers away, leaving her to walk up the long pier alone.

\--

 


	2. A Crooked Man in a Crooked House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter’s okay…man this thing is going to get creepy (and sexual like in a really messed up way) next chapter onwards. Readers, beware. Abandon ship now if this isn’t your cup of tea.

\--

She wonders if Anchor Island can even be called an island—it feels more like a massive atoll with some sand and grass.  She squints against the early afternoon sunlight as she walks up the pier—it’s too damn bright. She’s glad she wore her hair in a ponytail today as the winds are oppressively strong.   

_Fuck, it’s bright!_

_Where the hell is that mansion!?_

She doesn’t see anything but grass and wildflowers. A mélange of green and violet, floating atop the endless blue ocean. Some low hanging clouds mar her view of the rest of the island…and for a few seconds she feels completely and utterly alone.

_‘Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_I’m lost in the shadows…_

_…and so are you.’_

…that’s when she sees it, the ‘Ryker mansion.’ An imposing gray structure that sits along the edge, at the other end.

 _A so-called mansion on a so-called island_ , she thinks with a smirk. _The structure doesn’t have the feel of a mansion at all_.

Its façade is quite similar to some of the older salt-box style houses in New England—austere and practical—a certain puritanical harshness to its sharp edges. The steep, sloping roof gives the building an asymmetrical appearance. It looks strangely disproportionate, _lopsided_ , as if the house is leaning into the sea…towards its inevitable death.

She knows, _rationally_ , that the house _isn’t_ crooked—its distorted shape has to do with faulty depth perception. An optical illusion that’s tricking her mind. Still…there’s something unnerving about how it seems to be perched precariously at the edge. The window shutters are black, all tightly shut—absolutely forbidding. The house reminds her of an old nursery rhyme she used to recite as a child.

_‘The one about the crooked house…how did it start?’_

_‘There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile…’_

She walks closer to the Ryker house, her steps slow and steady.

_‘Come on feet!’_

The front door is relatively short and narrow. Unimposing, when compared to the rest of the house—a little inhospitable. Whoever designed the house didn’t seem to want any guests coming inside…or perhaps, he didn’t want his guests to leave.

Without bothering to knock, she twists the metal knob and steps inside.

\--

An unyielding cloak of darkness surrounds her as her eyes get used to the lack of sunlight—the balance between rods and cones shifts in her retinas.

“Hello…?”

She doesn’t receive a response—only silence and the slow swishing sound of an old, pendulum clock.

_‘There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile._

_He found a crooked sixpence, upon a crooked stile.’_

She moves further into the house, yelping as she hits her knee against something hard… _mother fucker, that hurt_!  Her patience wears thin, and she glares into the darkness.

“Screw you, Julian Chasse— _Goblin King_ —whoever the fuck you are. I’m here as per your fucked up instructions, the least you can do is show yourself.”

The pendulum moves back and forth…back and forth…back and forth. Slow, rumbling laughter echoes against the slanted walls of the house…the sound both resonant and dissonant. But the heavy darkness remains, and her host stays taciturn.

_“Tell me Sarah, what do you think of my Labyrinth?”_

She remembers him, how he… _felt_. The hypnotic lure of his tone…the warmth of his breath across her cheek…the vibrant thrum of magic that seemed to emanate from him intrinsically…

_“Tell me Sarah, what do you think…?”_

Memories of her run through his Labyrinth flood her mind. “This is really childish.”

_“Tell me Sarah, what do you think…?”_

She grits her teeth when he refuses to respond. “Fine. I’ll just stand here in the dark, while you jack off in the corner…or whatever it is that you’re doing.”

A dark chuckle.

“Calm down, Ms. Williams. I was merely looking for the remote and not…jacking off in the corner. There’s nothing quite so perverted at play.”

The deep baritone of his voice holds just a hint of humor. She can hear him move…a swish of fabric…the soft but grating sound of power blinds going up, and up, and up until they are fully raised.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s good to know.”

Light floods the house…

…and her vision blurs once again, the rods and cones in her eyes readjust to the bright sunlight.

When her vision normalizes, she notices that the ground floor of the house has no rooms—no divisions of any kind—the entire floor is like one big hallway. The wall that faces the ocean has humongous windows—all without shutters—giving her a breathtaking view of the Atlantic. The waves crashing against the rocks below seem to follow the pace of the pendulum clock…back and forth…back and forth…back and forth.

 “The ocean is treacherous in its beauty, don’t you agree Ms. Williams?”

_Ms. Williams?!_

His voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and she turns towards where he stands. She curls her fingers into her palm, nails digging into her flesh, as she prepares to steel herself against his piercing gaze.

_“Tell me Sarah, what do you think…?”_

…but he faces the sea instead, deliberately choosing not to turn to her.

He’s clothed in a dark blue suit, so dark that it almost looks black...and it would have, if it weren’t so bright inside. His hair isn’t what she remembers—an ethereal crown of silvery strands—it’s darker. _More human_. He looks less imposing without his cloak of midnight—maybe even shorter than she’d remembered. _More human_.

That he doesn’t even bother looking at her ignites a small spark of anger within her chest, and perhaps something else. “Is that why you called me all the way out here? To share your… _poetic thoughts_ …on the ocean? I’m quite disappointed, I was expecting something more _exhilarating_.”

He turns around slowly, savoring her growing fury…which quickly morphs into shock as she meets his asymmetrical gaze. “My apologies. I shall endeavor to live up to your expectations in the future.”

Clenching her fists, she stops herself from taking a step back. _Jesus_. The look on his face is so… _intense_. But it is also different from the Goblin King of her childhood, apart from his strange eyes. 

“It _is_ you…you’re him, aren’t you?”

_It’s him! It has to be him._

He raises a brow in response. “Who do you think I am, Ms. Williams?”

She frowns as his pale eyes gleam with unsuppressed amusement. “You know very well who I think you are, Mr. Chasse.” She calls him by his human name—electing to play his game.

“Your memory is… _impressive_.” He doesn’t say anything beyond that, but his lips twitch upwards, as if he’s suppressing a smile.

She crosses her arms and stares him down. “What do you want?”

The hostility in her voice deepens his smile, exposing the tips of his wicked sharp teeth. “That’s a complicated question, Ms. Williams.”

“Then give me a complicated answer, Mr. Chasse. You’re the one who sought me out, _not_ the other way around. I expect you have a reason that’s half way logical.” Her voice is flat, face as impassive as his.

If he seems surprised by her cool composure, he doesn’t show it. “I apologize for my lack of manners, Ms. Williams, please follow me…” he ushers her to a sitting area in the corner, it has only two armchairs, and a table in the middle. “Do sit down.”  

She raises her brows, but does as he asks. “Is there a point to any of this?”

He sits across the table, keeping his distance. “Of course there is, I’m not one to waste my time on whimsical fantasies. I just want to make sure that you’re… _adequately_ _comfortable_.”

“ _Nothing_ about this situation is comfortable, Mr. Chasse, I’m okay with that,” she responds with a harsh scoff. “You can tell me what you want. I promise not to faint or burst into hysterical tears.”

His gaze sharpens, as do the lines on his face. “Your bluntness surprises me, Ms. Williams. I expected fear, trepidation, perhaps even horror…not this detached wariness of a mortal beyond her years. I could ask _anything_ of you.”

She barks out a short laugh. “What did you expect? A virtuous young heroine who says no when she means yes, or vice versa…? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a fifteen year old child…and maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think you would be as _prosaic_ as to demand I sleep with you…or something equally predictable. You want something else, what is it?”

Something dark flashes in his pale eyes. He leans forward, elbows resting on the arm rest, fingers steepled under his chin. “I ask for your time, Ms. Williams. Three days of your… _invaluable_ …time.”

 “That’s not all that much.” She can’t help but let out a disbelieving snort.

“On the contrary, it’s three days of your mortal life, Ms. Williams. It’s seventy two hours…four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes…two hundred and fifty nine thousand, two hundred seconds…all of which belong solely to me.”

She frowns—something’s not quite as it seems… _but what_?

He’s quiet— _too_ quiet. He has the look of a hunter waiting to pounce, completely unseen by his prey. The dark gleam in his eyes is as anticipatory as it is ravenous. Still…three days sounds so benign when compared to what _she’d thought_ he’d ask.

The excruciating silence continues for a few moments before she finally breaks it. “Breaking three days into minutes or seconds may have a dramatic effect, but it’s still _only_ three days, Mr. Chasse. I’m not egocentric enough to believe that three days of my time is such a huge prize for you. ”

He laughs in response—a slow, lilting laugh. The sound rolls over her skin, caressing her in places as if it’s a tangible entity.

“Oh, but it _is_ , Ms. Williams. In _only_ three days, I shall consume three hundred thousand of your precious heartbeats…give or take a few. I shall breathe in every moment of your mortal life.” He leans forward. A smirk twists his lips when he sees her lean back by reflex. “I cannot wait to revel in the sound of your blood as it flows through your veins…to hold your beating pulse in my bare hands…to see the flash of cruelty in your eyes…to lose myself in your dreams…”

He seems lost in thought...and then he leans back, eyes shuttered, head resting languidly against the backrest. His eyes stay shut when he speaks, silvery lashes form sweeping crescents against his sharp cheekbones. He looks almost… _wistful_. “Three days would create an eternity of dreams for me, Ms. Williams. It is payment enough.”

An unnamed fear takes shape in the pit of her stomach. She’d been so sure that he’d want something sexual from her, and she isn’t entirely opposed to the idea. But his talk of heartbeat and blood disturbs her.

“You’re making it sound like you want to kill me and wear my skin as a cape, Mr. Chasse,” she says, attempting to be humorous. “Sexual favors would have been better.”

He laughs again, the sound rich and throaty. _Indulgent._

“Ah, but I would hate to disappoint you by being so _prosaic_.” He opens his eyes and holds her gaze—twin fires of ice and silver. “Whatever the future holds, I promise you that I will not end your life. Three days, Ms. Williams…I ask for so little. Tell me we have an agreement.”

She grits her teeth as his lips twist apart into a horrible smile—he has her and he knows it. Bastard is being cryptic on purpose.

“I’m not afraid of you Goblin King, you can quit the sinister bullshit,” she tells him, using his formal title. “And I’m not going to agree to anything unless you tell me what’s in it for me.”

This catches him by surprise, his pale eyes are alight with barely suppressed humor. “Well… well… well…Ms. Williams. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, and yet you want more. _Avarice_ …it is a sin in your world, is it not?”

She shrugs. “In most religions, I suppose—but no one _actually_ believes that, Mr. Chasse. If you want to consume three hundred thousand heartbeats of mine, you must give me something in return.”

“My heart weeps at the thought that the pleasure of my company isn’t enough to satiate your need, Ms. Williams. No matter…as I promised earlier, I shall endeavor to live up to your expectations of me. Name your price.”

She speaks without hesitation. “Demand a seat on the board. Together, we’ll have enough votes to throw my father out.”

The horrible smile on his face transforms into something worse. “Here I thought you were the prodigal daughter keen on taking on her father’s debts—you seem to want the _opposite_. What kind of heroine makes such a request, Ms. Williams?”

“I thought I’d made it very clear to you that I am no longer a fifteen year old child, Mr. Chasse. I don’t have fantasies of being a sacrificial virgin who vanquishes evil. The defiant heroine you encountered earlier doesn’t exist anymore…she’s long dead.” Her jaw hardens with determination. “Get rid of my father, and I’ll do what you want.”

“Hmm…so you wish for me to push your father out of his own firm. You want me to _protect_ you from him, is that it?” He laughs humorlessly—the sound short and rough, but his voice never quite loses its strangely musical quality. “I have no interest in your father’s firm, Ms. Williams. And I have _even less_ of an interest in becoming your protector. We both know I’m never going to be your knight in shining armor.”

It’s her turn to laugh. “I don’t need your protection, Goblin King. You will transfer your shares into a trust, of which I shall be the sole trustee. And then, I want you to get the hell out of my life.”

He takes her demands into consideration and nods his head. The predatory stillness is back as he asks his next question. “Any other requests?”

“No.”

He smiles disarmingly—his vicious teeth are hidden, and the silvery glow in his eyes fades into nothingness, as if it was never there. The lines on his face soften and his shoulders are relaxed. “Then we have an agreement, Ms. Williams…? I need you to say the right words.”

Her eyebrows shoot up.

_‘Say your right words…the goblins said…’_

The only ones she knows are…

_“I wish the Goblins would take you away…right now.”_

…but they don’t fit the bill. Not now.

“Ms. Williams, do we have an agreement?” He repeats himself—there’s a faint tremor to his voice, so faint that she misses it. If she were more alert, she would have observed his shoulders tense ever so slightly…as if he’s afraid she might turn him down.

“Um…yeah, we have an agreement,” she says. “But I have no clue what the right words are, you’ll have to prompt me.”

He chuckles darkly. “For now, your eloquent reply of ‘um yeah’ shall suffice.” Raising a hand, he gestures into the air, long fingers move languidly…and a burst of magic ignites in his fingertips. “Bargains must be sealed, I hope you don’t mind…”

…but he doesn’t give her a chance to say no.

She shivers violently as something bitterly cold slithers along her neck…down her spine…all the way down her fingers and toes. “What the—!”

He shakes his head—essentially telling her to be quiet. “It’s only a small amount of magic, Ms. Williams. _Harmless_. What’s said is said.”

\--

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

_‘This happened too quickly—he’s got you somewhere—he’s going to turn this thing around somehow, for who knows what. Best get on with it and find out…’_

She looks him in the eyes, her gaze unflinching. “I’m assuming you want me to _do_ _something_ for the next seventy two hours…”

A shock of dark gold hair falls over one eye, and he smiles—his teeth a jagged line of victory. “In due time, Ms. Williams. For now, let us relax and talk as old comrades who’ve crossed paths before…I’m sure we have many tales to share.”

Rolling her eyes at his archaic speech, she shrugs off his remark about being _old comrades_. “Let’s not mince words, Goblin King. I was the personification of all things goods and pure, a child on the cusp of womanhood…and _you_ wanted to _fuck_ me…” she tilts her head, a slow smirk twists her lips when she sees his eyes widen. “…and how I wished you _would_. You were made of shadows and smoke—the king of darkness.”

Her words elicit low, rumbling laughter, one that indicates genuine bemusement. “You give me far too much credit. I’ve never considered myself so _enigmatic_. The king of darkness…”

She resists the urge to snort—she has a feeling he considers himself _far more_ enigmatic than he lets on. “I am surprised you’ve decided to take on being a human venture capitalist—sounds pretty boring to me.”

A cool shrug. “I’ve taken on human personas every now and then. Life gets a bit… _dull_ …after a certain amount of time has passed. As for taking on the role of Julian Chasse—perhaps I did so for you, Ms. Williams. Perhaps I wish to ask something very _specific_ of you…”

The low, suggestive tone of his voice makes her nervous. “I’m not a moron, Goblin King. I highly doubt you’re here to fuck me senseless as some kind of misguided revenge. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

He smiles once more—that same, charming smile that softens his face and lights up his cold eyes. A mask of harmlessness—a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“You cut to the chase quickly, love. How very _amusing_. I would never fuck you senseless without your explicit consent, Ms. Williams—especially not for vengeance. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I believe fucking, especially of the senseless variety, should be unbearably hot. Don’t you…? Or are you as icy in bed as you are as a conversational companion?”

She narrows her eyes, refusing to take his bait. “I suppose that’s something you’re never going to find out.”

His lips tilt upwards, and the charming smile on his face transforms into something else entirely. “Well played, Ms. Williams. But I would advise you not to be so quick to make statements you can’t…adhere to.”

His derision makes her feel a strange mix of humor and fury. _The bastard is certainly audacious alright_. “Let’s change the subject. Why _three_ days—why not _two_?”

A laconic brow. “Why not four?”

“Fair enough. I’m guessing you could have summoned me anywhere, why choose an abandoned island?”

The mask of innocuousness disappears from his face, and his features turn stark. “You can say I have a _history_ with this place…” he pauses, mulling over his word, “…just like I have a history with you, I suppose.”

_A history with this place?_

“Your boat guy…” she cringes when the words leave her mouth. Her words sound ridiculous to her own ears but what the hell did one call someone who steered boats? “Anyway, he refused to give me his name. Did you have something to do with that?”

“He’s not my chauffer, love. If you recall, I don’t require the use of human transportation. I believe my firm hires him to ferry guests to and fro, every once in a while.”

She frowns. “Guests?”

“Of course,” he replies with a wide smile. “You don’t believe you’re the _only guest_ I’ve had so far…or _do_ you? Ah…Ms. Williams…first avarice, and now pride…you’re _certainly_ not the personification of all things good and pure.”

_Fucking bastard._

“Depends on how you define good and pure, Goblin King,” she retorts evenly, refusing to take his bait yet again. “Anyway, your boat-guy said this place was mostly uninhabited…except for a brief year in the 1890s.” Just as she says those words, the realization that _he_ could have something to do with the island hits her hard. Her eyes widen and her lips part.

His smile disappears, but his eyes remain aglow. “Don’t look so surprised my beautiful mortal. I’ve been alive for centuries…that I knew Ryker isn’t outside the realm of probability.”

She’s quick to swallow down her shock, refusing to give him the upper hand. Not that the bastard doesn’t have it already. “Your interests shifted from psychiatry to…being a venture capitalist? It’s a bit of a step down, isn’t it?”

“Depends on how you define step down, Ms. Williams,” he drawls, tossing her own words back. “Psychiatry during the Victorian era got monotonous after some time.”

“I thought it was all about masturbation to keep hysteria at bay, and overdosing yourself with opium and cocaine,” she states with a raised brow—a challenge. “Or did I miss something?”

He laughs, delighting in her stark sense of humor. “Many things, Ms. Williams—you missed a great many things. Ryker’s brand of therapy included some rather interesting methods…his focus on dreams caught my attention. You can say that I took a special interest in his research. Caused some…you can call it _influence_ …in his life.”

The gnawing anxiety in the pit of her stomach flares to life. “Boat-guy said Ryker brought twelve women here…of which only three returned.”

“But they never did _truly_ return… _did they_ , Ms. Williams? And neither did Ryker.” He awaits her answer with a hungry gaze, as if he wishes to feast on her anxiousness.

Although his voice remains neutral, she can _sense_ his twisted pleasure—the perverseness of it makes her stomach queasy. _Did he have something to do with what happened to those women?_ The thought leads her to another, more important, question.

“What do you want from me, Goblin King?”

His eyes light up with cruel amusement. Hadn’t she said she was no longer a sacrificial virgin?

_Oh, precious thing, how wrong you are…_

“Ryker’s work remains incomplete. The incompetent mortal was incapable of following simple instructions. There were supposed to be thirteen women, not twelve… _you_ , Ms. Williams, will help complete what was left unfinished.”

Her thoughts turn back to the old nursery rhyme…blood running cold as she remembers all the lines.

_‘There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile._

_He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked rile._

_He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,_

_And they all lived together in a little crooked house.’_

She has to swallow twice to find her voice. “How would I do that?”

He grins from ear to ear, his teeth sharp and vicious. “Don’t look so afraid, my mortal friend…I need you to be in the right frame of mind for the next three days.”

\--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: ye gods, this was supposed to be a four chapter fic. Somewhat influenced by Hannibal (don’t worry, there’s no cannibalism here—but omg Hannibal—I only watched Silence of the Lambs last year—started Hannibal a month or so back—it is disturbing—deliciously disturbing lol).
> 
> And then, I watched a suuuuuper scary show (courtesy Breejah and Viciously Witty) called The Haunting of Hill House—which was beautifully gothic…and frightening….and also beautiful. So…I wanna write more. I love gothic stories…just can’t resist them (save for the Bronte sisters).
> 
> Work’s going strong so Dark Court will have to wait…I’ll need to sort it out. I’m fucking working on a Saturday (I bought my colleagues donuts so at least there’s sugar). But—had a great (measly) five day vacation (some pics on my tumblr).
> 
> Also got a kitten (she’s a little devil– have a pic on tumblr). She’s in ‘attack everything’ mode—toes? Kitten attack! Fingers? Kitten attack! Suitcase? Kitten attack! Lol. It’s cute, but my god she’s a crazy little demon. With a LOT of energy. She got into my husband’s suitcase and refused to let him pack. It is so hilarious seeing a man over six feet trying to get tiny, raggedy little kitten out of his clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I have a strange love for horror/romance—it’s a very unique combination—but it’s the kind of ‘romance’ I enjoy the most.
> 
> Themes—
> 
> Asshole dad Robert—I hate this trope. Tough to write. Tough to relate to. But in the original b and the b story, Beauty’s dad is an ass, no? Who asked him to take the damn rose?
> 
> Sarah—I wanted to write an older and stronger Sarah (when compared to Devoured). I wanted her to want something—have agenda of her own so to speak. Normally, fanfics work the other way around.
> 
> Jareth…well…let’s see.


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